


Deaf Sentence

by Bofur1



Series: Where Sickness Thrives... [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: After Smaug, Aftermath of Injury, Angst and Tragedy, Brotherly Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deaf Character, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Teasing, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As they settle into Ered Luin, Óin tries to act like all is well but finds it difficult. Most assume that he's just uncomfortable in his new home—the truth is that his hearing has never been the same since Erabor...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deaf Sentence

**Author's Note:**

> "...If someone has full sight and goes blind, everyone regards it as terribly tragic, but if you're going deaf people think it's incredibly funny. It's an interesting observation and it is for the most part very true. We make light of it in these movies, but the truth of it is it's very isolating and sometimes Óin is isolated. Glóin feels he has to watch out for him..." —John Callen, Actor, Óin

“What? Could you say that again?”

Óin caught the puzzled look Glóin sent to their mother before he leaned forward and repeated, “The beans. Can you pass the beans?”

“Oh, right,” Óin mumbled, singeing his fingers on the hot bowl as he passed it to his brother. “Sorry.”

A moment of awkward silence settled upon the dining table before Gróin spoke.

“So…I’ve been called upon by the King.” His family glanced at him in surprise and he took a long sip of ale before he continued, “Despite our…dethroning…we’re still maintaining our titles. I’m to be the Chief Treasurer.”

“Of what treasure we have left,” Glóin murmured sadly.  

“It’s enough to keep your tummy full, so be grateful,” Gróin answered sternly. His face and tone softened as he reached over and squeezed the shoulder of his youngest. “Don’t fret, lad. We’ll keep buggering on.”

“Buttering what?” Óin echoed what he heard, mostly to himself.

|||

That night, Óin stood in front of his mirror, head tilted slightly so he could look at his right ear. Gingerly he brushed a finger over it, pursing his lips.

He’d only had time to learn the basics of a physician’s work before Erabor was taken; he didn’t know the workings of the inner ear.

Perhaps he should see a doctor. Óin snorted, shaking his head. Everyone was going to the doctors these days with after-injuries from Smaug’s rage. No doctor would make time for Óin and his injury that may or may not be there.

Óin startled when he spotted his mother’s reflection in the mirror behind his.

“Ama. I didn’t hear you come in,” he said slowly as he turned.

Neanélla smiled ruefully. “I noticed.”

Óin flushed but didn’t know why. Shifting slightly closer, Neanélla brushed one hand against Óin's back, motioning expectantly to his bed with the other. Hesitantly Óin obeyed and sat, asking impulsively, “Am I in trouble?”

Neanélla rolled her eyes. “You and your brother _always_ ask that, but you almost never are. I just want to know if you’re alright; it has been a while since we’ve talked, the two of us.”

After a pause, Óin shrugged, his gaze trailing around the plain, unadorned room he now called his own. “As alright as anyone else is right now, I suppose.”

Neanélla’s smoky-black eyes searched his face intently. “You’ve just seemed tired lately—not paying attention as well as you did.”

“I can’t sleep,” Óin confessed. This was true enough: every time he turned on his side, which was how he usually slept, his hearing went haywire.

Neanélla hugged him against her. “These new surroundings, then? It’s alright, dearest. We’ll all accustom to it soon enough. C’mon, in and under.”

Swallowing, Óin crawled beneath his blankets and Neanélla gently bumped foreheads with him. “Think of all our blessings when you can’t sleep. If you make the good bigger, the bad will seem smaller.”

As soon as Neanélla had closed the door, tears slipped down the sides of Óin’s nose into his beard. It had been good advice, but as Ama moved away he hadn’t been able to catch the last part of it.

|||

Óin dashed around a corner into an alley, face burning nearly as hot as it had in the attack on Erabor. He risked a look around the wall and, when he saw he was not followed, he sank down onto the dirty ground and buried his head in his hands.

The humiliation of his life, that’s what this hearing problem was turning out to be. All he had done was ask for the merchant to speak more clearly and the Man had exploded.

“ _Is this loud enough for you?!_ ” he bellowed, followed by a rant on the uselessness of these Dwarves that had come from Erabor. As Óin returned his purchase to the counter and made to escape, some of the teenagers had called out spiteful remarks.

“Dwarves are thick, all of ’em!”

“Go back to your holes!”

“What’ll be done with a handicapped craftsman?!”

Then a rock had landed Óin’s shoulder-blade. Stumbling under the unexpected assault, he bolted, followed by the precipitated hail of stones and grating laughter. That was how he’d wandered, utterly lost, into this unfamiliar alley.

“M’not handicapped…please, Mahal, don’t let me be handicapped…”

Óin didn’t know how many times he repeated the words; he could barely hear himself anyway.

It was nearly dusk by the time he was found and taken home. With a startling explosion of force, Glóin wrestled him to the ground in a hug the moment he saw him.

“Where were you?! Why didn’t you come home?!” he hollered in Óin’s face, his voice tearfully ferocious, fingers wrenching at his brother’s collar.

Before Óin could muster up an excuse, Gróin was hauling the two of them up from the floor and transporting them to the couch, where Óin spent the next hour being interrogated.

“Some of the Man-children were…bullying me,” Óin sighed eventually. “They were saying that Dwarves were useless and that we should crawl back to our holes.”

Gróin stiffened and Neanélla pursed her lips, clenching her hands tightly in her lap. Fidgeting uncomfortably, Glóin tried to hug his brother, but hardly a moment after he laid a hand on him, Óin groaned and recoiled.

“Óin, what is it?” Neanélla asked anxiously, leaning forward. “Are you hurt? Did they do something to you?”

“They threw a few stones…”

“How many is a few?”

Guiltily Óin lowered his gaze to his feet, muttering, “Four or five. Or six. Perhaps more.”

Eyes sparking in a dark face, Gróin audibly growled and jerked himself to his feet. “That’s it! This is going to the King!”

That brought Óin's head back up in a heartbeat. Holding his hands out placatingly, he pleaded, “Adad, no, there isn’t any need. I don’t want to make a big fuss out of nothing!”

“It’s not ‘nothing’!” Gróin snapped. “The Menfolk have escalated to physical violence against us!”

“It was just the youths,” Óin cut in. “I’m sure their parents dealt with them—”

Gróin snorted contemptuously. “I doubt it!”

Neanélla laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Just a moment, Gróin. We need to know why the insults started in the first place…Óin?” At the following silence, Neanélla turned her hard stare on her eldest. “Óin. _Hyübirâl!_ ”

The use of his inner name startled Óin. “Yes? What?”

Neanélla stared at him with an expression of alarm that quickly became something gingerly impassive. “Never…never mind. Just…tuck your brother in while your adad and I talk.”

Óin nodded, scooping up Glóin and shuffling down the hall. Glóin yipped as Óin dumped him onto his bed and turned away.

“Óin! That’s not tucking me in!” Glóin whined.

With a sigh of greatest restraint, Óin returned and carefully pulled the sheets over his brother. When he made to leave once more, Glóin called out, “Will you tell me a story?”

Óin whirled, exasperated. “What about Dori?”

Glóin sat up quickly, disarranging his covers. “I didn’t say anything about Dori. Can you tell me a _story?_ ” He drew out the word so Óin would be sure to understand.

“No!” Óin hollered furiously, causing Glóin to flinch back against his headboard. “And stop talking to me like I’m _handicapped!_ ” He whirled and stormed down the hall, slamming his bedroom door.

Glóin swallowed hard as his parents peered into his room moments later.

“What happened?” Neanélla asked worriedly as she came and sat on the edge of Glóin’s bed.

“I…I asked him to tell me a story,” Glóin explained miserably. “Something’s wrong, Ama. He can’t hear me right anymore and whenever I repeat myself he either gets sad or gets angry with me!”

Neanélla and Gróin cast each other uneasy glances.

|||

“Why am I going to a doctor?” Óin demanded incredulously.

“I think something might be wrong with your ears,” Neanélla explained mildly, her nonchalance betrayed by the worry creasing her eyes.

“ _Nothing_ is—!”

“If you’re going to explain yourself, don’t do it in that tone,” Gróin warned.

Sighing heavily, Óin collected his thoughts and began again. “Nothing is wrong with my ears. It’s just the one.” He gestured dejectedly to his right and explained what had happened in the attack on Erabor. “There was this explosion and my ear was bleeding…It hasn’t been the same since.” He bit his lip shamefully. “That’s why those youths were teasing me—I couldn’t hear what someone said and asked him to speak louder. He blew up at me, and…well.”

Gróin tipped his son’s chin up so he could meet his eyes. “You should have told us.”

“I know,” Óin murmured as he leaned into his father’s warm palm. “I’m sorry.”

The following trip to the doctor only gave Óin information he already had: his hearing would remain damaged for the rest of his life. Still, listening to someone else’s half-muted voice confirm what he already knew hurt in a way no one else would ever understand. He clung to the metal hearing trumpet the doctor had given him like it was a weapon as he stumbled home between his parents.

When he was once again alone, Óin fought down the urge to throw the instrument across the room. Instead he set it on his dresser, flopped onto his bed, and screamed into his pillow until he couldn’t breathe anymore. Only minutes later, Glóin crawled onto the bed beside him.

“What’re you doing here?” Óin panted out, his voice, like all the others, muffled.

Wriggling his way under Óin’s arm, Glóin curled up against him and pronounced his answer unmistakably: “You are my brother and I love you.”

They stayed beside each other, and always would.

 


End file.
